Tell you how we’re going end the war in Kosovo. We’re going to buy Bill Clinton a codpiece.
I figure the whole thing is a manhood ritual. Have you seen those nature movies about swamp birds? You know: the male bird sticks his neck in the air like he thought it was a periscope and pumps his head up and down and gurgles weirdly and flaps and skitters across the water like an epileptic fit with feathers and the female bird, who doesn’t know any better, thinks, “Oh, baby.” That’s what Clinton is doing in Kosovo. Waggling his virility.
A codpiece would do just as well, and be lots cheaper. I figure something in black leather, with a Harley logo.
Most wars are started by short, funny-looking men with weak egos. Napoleon, Mussolini, Hitler, Alexander the Great, Lenin, Trotsky–a congeries of pipsqueaks. Now, Bill isn’t funny-looking, being cornpone handsome and reasonably presentable, but everyone knows he hid out during his generation’s war, as shamelessly as Dan Quayle and Ron Reagan. (The difference between Clinton and Reagan is that?umm?er?heh?hmmm.) Anyway, Bill is always getting ragged about wussing out.
It galls him. Guys who went to war can affect trauma manfully borne, bear up under terrible memories they don’t have, and work on their thousand-yard stares, even though most of them were in mess-kit repair battalions. Not Clinton. Bill didn’t go. He stands to be remembered chiefly for mendacity and diddling fat girls. The military sneers at him. He’s kind of pasty. You can’t help feeling that if he stood in front of the tofu department at Safeway, he might end up in someone’s cart.
He needs to bomb someone. It’s remedial Quang Tri.
Why the Serbians? They probably deserved bombing, but most people do. Why them? Why not some other miscreants? What earthly reason do we have for such a thing?
The national interest? I did some research on Kosovo–checked atlases, pored over maps, studied GPS coordinates and history books, did latitudes and longitudes. I found out something fascinating: Kosovo is in Europe. Judging by Clinton’s enthusiasm, I had figured it must be in Arkansas, maybe in the suburbs of Little Rock.
Now, it seems to me that if Kosovo is in Europe, it’s Europe’s problem. Near I as can tell, the United States is in no heart-stopping danger of invasion by Serbians. I have carefully counted all of Serbia’s strategic missiles, carrier battle groups, fighter aircraft, and motorized armies, and the grand total would fit nicely into the IQ of a network anchorman. As a matter of cold-eyed military analysis, a couple of elderly senators from Mississippi with bird guns could defend us against Serbia.
So why are we over there? Europe is a remarkably useless place and, politically speaking, belongs in diapers. All it does is make trouble. Half of it invades the other half, which then comes squalling to us like a three-year-old to Mommy and wants us to save it from itself. Serbs are worse trouble. We got into World War I because a Serbian loon shot that archduke. It would have been cheaper to buy them another archduke, but no. We had to go save Europe.
It doesn’t make sense. Kosovo isn’t our problem. We’re there, I tell you, so Clinton can work on his feral aura. He wants to be like James Dean, Elvis, and Marlon Brando. He’d have better luck trying to be a shorthaired poodle, but never mind.
A codpiece would be better all around. We would want a large one, of course, to better make the point. Throw in a raffish tattoo on the arm (I’m partial to “This End Up,” though I suppose “Death Before Dishonor” or “Born to Die Hard” would better convey the presidential lethality), and everybody would know he was one?ba-a-ad?dude. (Or a dweeb with a codpiece, but I’m trying to be upbeat.)
Don’t underestimate codpieces. They can be more than a fashion statements. If it had a zipper the president could keep in it such utensils as might be convenient in his hobbies–mouthwash, ScotchGuard, maybe a panatela. There could be a pocket for car keys. Perhaps a radio transmitter so the Secret Service could keep track of him, though the antenna might be an embarrassment.
The more I think about it, the better the idea seems. We might include a smoke-generator in case a third-world mob assaulted him. Even if the smoke didn’t hide him, astonishment alone would paralyze the hardiest mob. How about a packet of shark repellant in case he fell out of a helicopter? A compartment for sandwiches? Kind of like a purse for guys.
If that didn’t stop Bill’s military lunging about, we could get him a sword.